Indulgence
by Momosportif
Summary: Zephi drabble zelgiusxsephiran ! Zelgius is the perfect servant, unwavering in abiding by the restrictions of his role. But master Sephiran would much rather him break the rules from time to time... A tad confusing. Nintendo owns them both! Please enjoy!


Here is a key to help you because this fic is mostly pronouns: Zelgius is always he or him and Sephiran is always his (gaze him the possessive, it fits so well). If you think I messed up somewhere (very possible, it was hard to keep the structure) please tell and I'll make and alternative phrasing. Enjoy!

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Indulgence

The rules are no flinching. No trembling. No touching. No gripping. No arching.

Slight stretching is allowed.

No whispering. No gasping. No moaning. No panting. No screaming.

Level speaking is permitted.

The rules are his for him to follow though his dead smiling lips never moved to impart them. He is his living fidelity, his rules were integral as soon as his game began.

He sits straight, tall, alone in the translucent canopy, floating above a world his body walks in but his heart has frozen to, his mind has buried, he sees familiar red armor cast aside, next to the couch, though he has closed eyes and is turned away from where his hands carefully placed it.

His body is curved into the plush velour settee, enveloped in the comfort of illusions, isolated between the gauze drapes hung from the high-ceilinged marble balcony's top, higher than reality below where he fights and feels but doesn't live, his slender fingers are curled in the linen shirt he wears now pouring around the muscles at the base of the back he can't move.

His game mandates it so.

His rules are nonexistent, his objective simply to make him break his rules, his desire to test the control he is famous for, but his true lust to watch him break.

He cannot flinch.

He feels his fingers rising before he feels them touch and slide up to the left as they always begin under the ruse of examining the mark he is glad to have to the back of him. He is smiling sardonically because he sees through closed eyes that his perfect lips are curved upward mercilessly and his game is such pleasure (to them both, though he cannot let it show, his fingers feel what he feels regardless). His touch is lighter than possibility, up, down, up, down, and then the pressure starts and he remains perfectly poised, back straight, shoulders back, head bent. He knows his smirk is encouraging, daring him to break because his smile is always that much wider when he looses composure, when he fails. He is thus that much more determined to win, always to win, so the red trails of his fingertips switched halfway up to nothing touches will not make him utter a word or move an inch.

Though he wants to whisper, to gasp, to moan, to pant, to scream.

He almost flinches, almost trembles, almost touches, almost grips, almost arches the back his fingers are teasing and screams until he has no breath.

He knows this is his objective and thus not his objective, to break would be pleasing but only on his surface, where his peers see his compassion. Inside, if he broke, his disappointment would emerge and taint his image of his servant who knows his inside is as twisted as the mark he bares.

What he does not know is he has mis-assessed his complex motives.

His game is pure, one of the few things his hands have touched that is not horridly awry, and his sole desire is that one day he will scream and arch the back his fingers are tracing letters on (he is always concentrating too hard on following his rules to realize his path spells out I love you).

That one day he will allow himself the human urges they suppress.

In failing, he would truly win.

But his servant is above failure, above the peasants below in their mundane world full of unfulfillment, though he has yet to see his paradoxal yearning for him to fail (when his plan for the world is punishment for failing time and again).

Sephiran sighs through his lying smile as his beseeching hand withdraws from the tanned, immobile skin it has traveled.

"You win again, Zelgius," his smile doesn't falter as the linen returns to its proper place, hiding the back that jolts his heart every time it is his to see bare. He pauses, tasting another empty victory and does not turn to give thanks as is customary.

At times, the most rigid will crumble because they can or because they must.

"My Lord," he turns, body shaking slightly, sending a tremor through the voice that never shakes and grasp the tormenting hand, "may I take a reward?"

His smile ripples as warm lips break the surface and he dares to moan and to touch, to pant and to grip, sinking deep into the tawny velour for moments neither care to count.

He glares, self-resenting but unashamed, and his smile is wide, so delighted by failure.

"You win again, Zelgius," his tormenting hand turns welcoming as it brushes dark bangs across a sweating brow. He understands at once, the true game.

"May I take a reward, my Lord?"

At times the gods are human too because they lust or because they love.

"Yes… _my_ lord."

Always the gods play the cruelest games.

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If you have questions about anything, feel free to ask, I know it was a little confusing... Thanks :D!


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